Peter Tremayne - An Ensuing Evil and Others

“And what did he want?” pressed Master Drew.

“This youth accused our company of pirating a play that he claimed to be author of.”

Constable Drew raised an eyebrow. “Tell me, was there reason behind this encounter?”

“Good Master Constable, we are rehearsing a play whose author is one Bardolph Zenobia. He has written a great tragedy titled The Vow Breaker Delivered . It is a magnificent drama….” He paused at the constable’s frown and then hastened on. “This youth, whom you describe, came to the theater and claimed that this play was stolen from him and that he was the true author. As if a mere youth could have penned such a work. He claimed that he had assistance in the writing of it from the hand of some companion of his-”

“And you set no store by his claim, that this play was stolen from him?”

“None whatsoever. Master Zenobia is a true gentleman of the theater. A serious gentleman. He has the air of quality about him….”

“So you know him well?”

“Not well,” confessed Master Williams. “He has been to the theater on diverse occasions following our acceptance of his work. I believe that he has rooms at the Groaning Cardinal Tavern in Clink Street-”

“Clink Street?”

It was across the river, in his own Bankside jurisdiction.

“What age would you place this Master Zenobia at?”

“Fully forty years, with graying hair about the temples and a serene expression that would grace an archbishop.”

Master Drew sniffed dourly. Theater people were always given to flowery descriptions. “So did the youth depart from the theater?”

“Depart he did, but not until I threatened to call the watch. When I refused to countenance his demands, he shouted and threatened me. He said that if he did not recover the stolen play or get compensation, his life would be in danger.”

“His life?” mused Master Drew. “Marry! But that is an odd thing to say. Are you sure he said it was his life in danger, not the life of Master Zenobia? He did not mean this in the manner of a threat?”

“I have an ear for dialogue, good master,” rebuked the man. “The youth soon betook himself off. It happened that Master Zenobia was on stage, approving the costumes for his drama, and so I warned him to beware of the young man and his outrageous claims.”

“What did he say?”

“He just replied that he would have a care and soon after departed.”

“Is he here today?”

“No. He told me he would be unable to see the first performance of the play this afternoon but would come straightway to the theater after the matinee.”

“A curious attitude for an aspiring playwright,” observed Master Drew. “Most of them would want to be witnesses to the first performance of their work.”

“Indeed, they would. It seems odd that Master Zenobia only calls at our poor theater outside the hours of our performances.”

Constable Drew thanked the man and turned out of the theater to walk back to the river. Instead of spending another halfpenny to cross, he decided to walk the short distance to the spanning wooden piles of London Bridge and walk across the busy thoroughfare with its sprawling lopsided constructions balanced precariously upon it. Master Drew knew the watch on the bridge and spent a pleasant half an hour with the man, for it was midday, and a pint of ale and pork pie at one of the grog shops crowded on the bridge was a needed diversion from the toil of the day. He bade farewell to the watch and came off the bridge at the south bank turning west toward Clink Street.

The Groaning Cardinal Tavern was not an auspicious-looking inn. Its sign depicted a popish cardinal being burnt at the stake. It reminded Constable Drew, with a shudder, that only the previous year some heretics had been burnt at the stake in England. Fears of Catholic plots still abounded. Henry, the late Prince of Wales, had refused to marry a Catholic princess only weeks before his death, and it was rumored abroad by papists that this had been God’s punishment on him. Protestants spoke of witchcraft.

Master Drew entered the tavern.

The innkeeper was a giant of a man-tall, broad shouldered, well muscled, and without a shirt but a short, leather, sleeveless jerkin over his hairy torso. He was sweating, and it became evident that he was stacking ale barrels.

“Bardolph Zenobia, Master Constable?” He threw back his head and laughed. “Someone be telling you lies. Ain’t no Master Zenobia here. He do sound like a foreigner.”

Constable Drew had come to the realization that the name was probably a theatrical one, for he knew that many in the theater adopted such preposterous designations.

He repeated the description that Master Page Williams had given him and saw a glint of anxiety creep into the innkeeper’s eyes.

“What be he done, Master Constable? ‘E ain’t wanted for debt?”

Master Drew shook his head. “The man may yet settle his score with you. But I need information from this man, whoever he is.”

The innkeeper sighed deeply. “First floor, front right.”

“And what name does this thespian reside under?”

“Master Tom Hawkins.”

“That sounds more reasonable than Master Zenobia,” observed the constable.

“Them players are all the same, with high-sounding titles and names,” agreed the innkeeper. “Few of them can match their name to a farthing. But Master Hawkins is different. He has been a steady guest here these last five years.”

“He has his own recognizances?”

The man stared at him bewildered.

“I mean, does he have financial means other than the theater?”

“He do pay his bills, that’s all I do say, master,” the innkeeper replied.

“But he is a player?”

“One of the King’s Men.”

Master Drew was surprised. “At the Globe Theatre?”

“He is one of Master Burbage’s players,” confirmed the innkeeper.

Constable Drew mounted the stairs and knocked at the first floor, front right door. There was no answer. He did not hesitate but entered. The room was deserted. It was also untidy. Clothes and papers were strewn here and there. Master Drew peered through them. There were some play parts and a page or two on which the name Bardolph Zenobia was scrawled.

He took himself downstairs and saw the big innkeeper again.

“Maybe he has gone to the theater?” suggested the man when he told him the room was deserted.

“It is still a while before the time of the matinee performance.”

“They sometimes hold rehearsals before the performance,” the innkeeper pointed out.

Master Drew was about to turn away when he realized it would not come amiss to ask if the innkeeper knew aught of the youth whose body had been discovered. He gave the man a description without informing him of his death. But his inquiry was received with a vehement shake of the head.

“I have not seen such a young man here nor do I know him.”

Constable Drew walked to where the Globe Theatre dominated its surroundings in Bankside. Master Hardy Drew had been a boy when the Burbage brothers, Cuthbert and Richard, had built the theater there fourteen years before. Since then the Globe had become an institution south of the river. It had first become the home of the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, who, on the succession of James VI of Scotland to the English throne ten years ago, had been given gracious permission to call themselves the King’s Men. Master Drew knew Cuthbert Burbage slightly, for their paths had crossed several times. Cuthbert Burbage ran the business side of the theater while his brother, Richard Burbage, was the principal actor and director of the plays that were performed there.

Master Drew entered the doors of the Globe Theatre. An elderly doorman came forward, recognized the constable, and halted nervously.